Hell Hath No Fury
by JMilz
Summary: Hermione wanted nothing more than a relaxing holiday season with her husband - but when she discovers that he has been cheating on her, her emotions take them both on a wild ride. Short story presented in two parts. Warning: Ron-bashing and Dark Hermione.
1. Hell

Piles of parchment were stacked atop almost every surface of the Auror Office. It had been a long time since a raid led to so many arrests, and usually, such success would make Harry Potter giddy. Alas, he had much heavier things on his mind.

"_Seventeen_ supporters," Ron Weasley exclaimed, shaking his head. "Can you believe it? _Seventeen! _All with Dark spells on their wands too! We couldn't have been any luckier. Open and shut case, the lot of them."

Harry could not meet his friend's eyes. After all, when he was a teenager, many of his fears revolved around the fact that his two best friends would, eventually, marry, either leaving him on his own or putting him in the middle of their problems. Unfortunately, as an adult, he found that the issue was usually the latter.

"Yeah, lucky. Right."

Ron frowned. "What's wrong, mate? Thought there was gonna be eighteen, did you?"

The awkward laugh that followed told Harry that Ron was not as clueless as he was leading on. He was simply trying to bury the elephant in the room—a silent plea to pretend Harry had not seen what they both knew he had.

"Right, well, I best be off," Ron muttered, buttoning his jacket. "Hermione probably has dinner waiting."

"Funny she still cooks you dinner after..." Harry could not even say the words. Even the mere hint made his face hot. "I mean, you _did_ tell her, right?"

It was Ron's turn to blush.

"Not yet," he admitted, scratching the back of his head. "I mean, she's _mental_, Harry. Yesterday, she threatened to curse me just because I spilled some firewhisky on the coffee table. She'll probably bloody kill me when she finds out about...well, _this_."

"Should've thought of that before you did it."

Ron sighed. "Yeah, you're right. _Ahem_. I'll—er—I'll talk to her tonight. See you, Harry."

Harry bid him a silent goodbye and rubbed his temples. If he knew Ron like he thought he knew Ron, there was little to no possibility that he would really tell Hermione what he had been doing, and that was the kind of burden Harry couldn't live with.

* * *

Steam billowed from a boiling pot as the lid lifted, held by nothing more than the force of Hermione Granger's magic. Every day, she cooked dinner for herself and her husband, and every day, she loathed it as much as she did the day before. Cooking made her understand how people could have house-elves, though she would never sink so low as to purchase one. It went against all of her principles.

She, Hermione, had principles, after all. Whether her husband had them, on the other hand, she was not so sure.

Just over a month had passed since she saw a photograph of her beloved in the _Daily Prophet_, his arm delicately slung around a plump woman's waist. The article had been titled "WAR VETERAN RONALD WEASLEY, CAUGHT CHEATING ON WIFE, HERMIONE GRANGER", and it was this title, of course, that caught Hermione's eye.

According to the reporter, Jordis Bellton, Ron had been having an affair with the woman for nearly three months, but the _Daily Prophet_ was known to lie. Her husband adamantly denied the claim, asking, "How could they even know something like that? Come off it, Hermione. She's only a coworker."

The woman was indeed one of his coworkers. Moretta Morble, Kingsley Shacklebolt's secretary, was nearly eight years older than she and Ron, with a pinched face and gaudy blue spectacles. When Hermione first met her at a Ministry Christmas party, she wondered if she was related to Pansy Parkinson, as their strange noses bore a striking resemblance to one another.

"Parkinson?" the woman had said in a thick cockney accent. "Rich folk, aren't they? Nope, wouldn't be related to no Parkinsons. 'oopley, yeah, related to the 'oopleys... Jeb 'oopley. Famous for slippin' Babblin' Bev'rage in Chauncey Quirrell's potion just before his acceptance speech for Merlin's Third Order..."

Back then, Hermione never would have thought the woman to be anything more than a rambling colleague—someone that Ron would not even necessarily like. Then, three years later, he was with her again—on Christmas.

"Can't make Christmas dinner, darling," he had said before pecking her on the cheek. "I've got to work. Tell my mum I send my love."

Harry, who _had_ made it to Christmas dinner, was under the impression that everyone in the Auror Office had been granted the day off, as it was a holiday. After this announcement, dinner was extraordinarily silent for the size of the family, set aside the crying from George and Angelina's new baby and Mr. Weasley's nervous throat-clearing. Perhaps, they, like her, thought the worst of Ron.

"Evening, love," Ron said, opening the door. He kicked the snow from his boots and hung up his jacket. "Mighty cold out there."

"I wouldn't know," Hermione said, bitterly.

"Been stuck inside all day, have you?" he asked, kissing her on the cheek. "Get some writing done, at least?"

"Some," she muttered, waving her hand. The flame disappeared from beneath the pot. "How was work?"

"Amazing, really. Seventeen arrests today. All supporters, all headed to Azkaban."

Hermione forced a smile and nodded. "That's great, dear."

"Yeah," he said, furrowing his brow. "Really bloody great."

There was something he wanted to say, but he wasn't saying it. His contorted expression was the same one he wore when he accidentally burned her favorite book while studying Dark spells for work.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, both fearful of his answer and hopeful that he would have the decency to confess.

For a long moment, he continued watching her, as though warring with himself whether he should admit his wrongdoing. Finally, he shook his head and smiled.

"Nothing. Dinner smells great."

And with those words, he summoned a bowl, ladled it full of stew, and went to the living room to eat.

* * *

Never had Moretta Morble seen a more exquisite set of diamonds. Of course, they were owed to her. When the press approached her about her scandal with Ronald Weasley, she simply smiled and said, "The bloke's just a coworker. A right joke to say we're 'avin' an _affair_."

To be fair, before the _Daily Prophet_ article, she had not even known it was a scandal. Like most men she had known, Ronald Weasley was a liar, but unlike most men she knew, she still liked him after discovering as much.

"Hermione and I—I mean, things weren't good between us," he had said, following her into the Atrium. It was nearly empty. "We'll be split in the eyes of the law soon, but right now it's just a separation. Trying to sort out who gets what and all that."

"She always seemed a bit snooty to me," Moretta had replied.

"She is—snooty, that is. Always talks down to me." The way he pressed his lips together—something was strange about it, but Moretta could not quite pinpoint what it was. "Now, if she were more like you, maybe it wouldn't be so bad."

Her cheeks had gone warm. "And what d'you mean by that?"

"I dunno," he had said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Nice, listens to me and the like. I mean, and she's pretty, but you—well, I dunno if you've seen her hair..."

Rarely did men call Moretta pretty. She was approaching forty and over the years, she had packed on much more weight than she ever intended. What was so wrong with indulging? Divorces were not so common in the Wizarding world, but they weren't entirely unheard of. Perhaps, her parents would think him tainted, but could they really look down on a war hero?

She must have been dreaming. A war hero was flirting with _her_.

Surely, her parents wouldn't think him tainted. He was _Ronald Weasley_.

"So I was thinking, maybe after work," he had breathed, putting a hand on her lower back, "we could head over to the Leaky. I could rent us a room for—"

"Weasley!"

Moretta had almost been glad for the interruption. If she blushed any more, she would be redder than her suitor's hair.

Ron, upon hearing his name, pivoted on his heel and groaned. Apparently, he did not want to see the man that was calling for him.

The wizard was blond, one that Moretta recognized from the papers. He was tall and pale, but handsome in a haughty kind of way—the kind of way that said he had more gold than sense. His eyes were narrow as he approached them, gripping a large briefcase with enough force that his knuckles had gone red and white. Who he was there to see, Moretta did not know, but she suspected that it wasn't Ron.

"Malfoy."

"Fancy seeing you here," the man said in a way that suggested it was not something to fancy at all. His silver eyes darted towards her. "Who's your friend?"

"Moretta Morble," she said, holding out her hand for a proper greeting.

The man glanced at her outstretched hand and shook it, halfheartedly.

"Draco Malfoy." He turned back to Ron. "And how do you know Mrs.—?"

"_Miss _Morble," she emphasized, smirking at Ron.

"Right. How silly of me. _Miss_ Morble."

"She's a coworker," Ron said through gritted teeth.

"A coworker," Malfoy said, raising his eyebrows. "Fascinating. I didn't realize it was the standard to touch your coworkers on the small of their back. My, my, my. Times have surely changed."

"Mind your business, Malfoy," Ron had muttered.

Malfoy grinned, but not in a nice way. "Keep your wits about you, Weasley. No need to nick Sickles from the street when you have Galleons in the vault." He glanced back at Moretta. "It was lovely meeting you, Miss Morble."

"What was all that about?" Moretta had asked.

And Ron had given her a confused smile and said, "Malfoy's always had it out for me. Still holds it against me for outing him as a Death Eater."

And that was all he had to say for Moretta to have him eating out of the palm of his hand.

It should have been a sign, and maybe it was. Maybe she suspected it but did not want to see it. Maybe, as she admired the glittering necklace that was a quiet "thank you", she knew it was Malfoy that had gone to the press with what he had seen.

_An anonymous source claims, "I saw them together when I was visiting a friend from the Ministry of Magic. They seemed to be rather flirtatious. That was in October."_

Could one put a price on a relationship of lies?

Moretta, as she clasped the necklace around her neck, decided that one could.

* * *

Hermione stood in the doorframe, watching Ron as he ate his stew. Her fingers ached from poring over parchment all day, editing and writing and rewriting. In a way, she was thankful for her work. Without it, she would spend far too much time thinking about her husband and his many stories—stories that didn't add up, stories that changed.

"No idea who their _source_ was," Ron had said, unprovoked. "Probably made them up, they did. That's why they were _anonymous_."

"Well, you seemed comfortable enough with your arm around her waist. Someone probably saw you doing that and considered it flirtatious, because it is," Hermione had snapped.

"It's polite! I was walking her home!"

"Walking her home? Before you said you were escorting her to Ollivanders because she broke her wand!"

"Well, she did break her wand," Ron lied. "I was walking her home and then to Ollivanders."

"That makes no bloody _sense_, Ron!"

"I was being polite!" he had shouted at her. "We both had to work and she broke her wand and so I took her home to get a jacket and then—"

_"She's wearing a jacket in the picture!"_

He stammered then, unsure how to pull himself out of the grave he had dug. Hermione could not believe that he missed Christmas dinner to spend time with this coworker, who he claimed had to be at work on a holiday, even though she was nothing but a secretary.

"The stew's good."

"Good," Hermione said, automatically—unfeelingly.

"I love you," he pressed.

"I love you too," she replied, her stomach roiling.

She wasn't sure if she meant it or not.

* * *

If Ron Weasley thought he was unhappy three months before Christmas, he was miserable after the article released on the twenty-sixth of December. Working with Harry was awkward, because Harry knew he was lying about having to work on Christmas and Harry most certainly knew that he wasn't helping Moretta with a bad Self-Buttoning Charm when he caught them half-naked in the Auror Office.

Home was no better.

Hermione was far too smart for her own good, and no matter how much lying he did and no matter how much attention he gave her, she was still distant. He often caught her glaring at him from the corner of her eye, her jaw clenched and her arms crossed.

In fact, she was giving him that look now.

"Everything alright, love?"

"I'm fine."

There was silence for a few moments.

Ron cleared his throat and said, "Valentine's Day is coming up. Anything you want to do? I'll take you anywhere."

"Are you sure you won't have to work that day?"

It was a rhetorical question, and a scathing one at that.

Brooding, she stood up and stormed out of the room. The click of the lock sounded behind her, and even though Ron could easily unlock it, he knew that he shouldn't.

* * *

It wasn't likely that Ron told Hermione the truth. Hermione had not written to him or Ginny, and if she had heard the devastating news, they would have been the first to know.

A week had passed, and still, she had not sent an owl nor paid a visit.

"You didn't tell her yet, did you?" Harry decided to ask.

Ron, who was seated at his desk, continued writing. The _scritch-scratch _of his quill answered Harry's question.

"You know I have to tell her if you don't, don't you?"

Suddenly, Ron dropped his quill. Horror pooled in his azure eyes.

"You can't!"

"She's my best mate, Ron."

Harry felt a pang of guilt as he said the words. He had witnessed Ron and Moretta Morble being much more intimate than he had ever witnessed two people being, outside of himself and Ginny, and somehow, he had gone weeks without telling Hermione.

The poor girl was being betrayed not once, but twice.

"But _I'm_ your best mate."

"You're both my best mates."

"So we cancel each other out then! You can't tell her!"

What an obscenely ludicrous—and childish—argument he was presenting.

"Well, you haven't."

"But I will."

"Will you?"

Ron stammered out a slew of sounds, but no words came out—at least not any that Harry recognized.

"Sorry, mate, but I'm telling her. She deserves that much."

* * *

_Created for the HPFF Winter Writing Adventure 2k19/2k20._


	2. Fury

"You _saw_ them?"

Hermione could not believe what she was hearing. She suspected that Ron was not being honest about his relationship with Moretta Morble, but she had never suspected that Harry caught the two of them together.

"I should've told you sooner, but Ron swore he would tell you himself," Harry explained. He took Hermione's hands in his and frowned. "I know this is probably a big shock to you... If you need some space—"

"No," Hermione insisted, pulling her hands away from him. She forced a tight smile and dropped a sugar cube into her tea. "No, I'm—I'll—I'll be fine."

"Are you sure? You don't seem fine."

"Well I am," she sniffed in a clipped tone, getting up from her chair. Smoothing her skirt she asked, "Can I get you any more tea? A biscuit?"

"Er—no. Hermione, you know, I think he's stopped now—"

"You _think?_" Hermione shrieked, rounding on him. "Are you telling me that he may still be _seeing_ this woman?"

Harry grimaced. "I mean, we _see_ her at work every day. She's Shacklebolt's secretary."

"You know what I mean, Harry!"

"I know, I know! I just—I can't be sure whether he's seeing her in _that_ way or not. It's not exactly something he would _tell_ me," Harry said, wearing the same strained look he had been wearing since he showed up. "Look, why don't you come with me to the house. The Harpies don't have any games until April, so Ginny will be home and you two can, I dunno, talk?"

"Talk," Hermione repeated. "You think _talking_ will fix this."

"Of course it won't fix it, but Ginny always talks about _girl time_ and I thought that maybe it could help?"

"No offense, Harry, but I don't think I want to be around any Weasleys right now."

While Harry offered her a nod, Hermione could see the confusion in his expression. He clearly did not understand that she needed to be alone to process everything that she learned, and he never would, because Ginny was the faithful sort.

"Well, if you need anything, you know where to find us. I do have to get home, though. I promised Gin I'd help with dinner..."

"Right, because you're a _good_ husband."

With a somber look and squeeze of Hermione's shoulder, Harry Disapparated.

* * *

"It's for the best, Moretta. I mean, we couldn't keep it up forever, could we?" Ron said, leaning over his stout mistress's desk.

How he had forgotten about his love for his wife, he did not know, but he had, and he regretted every second of it.

"For the best?" Moretta hissed. "You just bought me a necklace! You don't usually buy a necklace for a woman you want to break up with, now do you?"

"I—that was—that was for what you said to the _Prophet!_" Ron eyed a passing caretaker, who he awkwardly waved at. Lowering his voice, he continued, "It didn't mean we were going to keep...well, you know!"

"Should've said that, then!" Moretta said through gritted, crooked teeth. Her glasses fogged as streams of mascara started running down her face.

Ron sighed, wondering how he could be any clearer and how he could stop her from causing a scene. "Look, Moretta, you're a nice lady, but I'm _married_. I'm pretty sure Harry's off to tell my wife what we've been doing, and she isn't exactly going to forgive me if I'm still seeing you. It was fun, but that's all it was, yeah? Just a bit of fun."

_"A bit of fun,"_ Moretta repeated. "You told me you were leavin' 'er!"

_"Shh!"_ Ron shushed the woman, his eyes widening. "Keep it down, would you?"

"I will _not_ keep it down! I knew something was wrong when that Malfoy bloke said whatever it was he said about Sickles and Galleons..."

"Malfoy is a git!"

"_You're_ a git!"

The heat in Ron's cheeks must have been showing, because Moretta wiped her nose and smirked like she had won something. When he started to see the woman, he thought she would be intelligent enough to know the context of their relationship, but over time, she proved that she was much dafter than he realized. He could tell her anything and she would accept it.

If only he had not told her so many things.

"Okay, I'm a git," he admitted, quietly, "but git or not, I'm a married man, Moretta. Hermione and I have had our problems but I love her, and if I'm going to patch it up with her now, you and I can't do what we've been doing. If you could just forget this whole..._thing_—whatever it was that we were—it would make life a lot easier, because as long as we both work here, we're going to see each other, and I don't want it to be awkward, and I assume you don't want it to be awkward either..."

"And why should I? You led me on, I did you a favor, and now you want _another_ favor." She sniffled and dabbed the running mascara with her finger. Unfortunately, this only left a rather large blotch of inky black on her cheek. "You're lucky I don't march down to your 'ouse and tell your wife exactly what's been goin' on for the last few months."

"You wouldn't!"

The last thing Ron needed was for Hermione and Moretta to face each other. Moretta would not stand a chance, and then he would have to worry about seeing his wife go to Azkaban.

"I might," Moretta threatened, crossing her arms, "unless you give me reason not to."

Groaning, Ron reached into his pockets. "You want gold."

She fingered the corner of her eye, smearing more black makeup across her cheek. "For my trouble? Yes, I want gold. You've been a right tosser to me and the least you can do is pay me off."

After rifling around in his pockets—pockets that Hermione had enchanted to hold much more than any pockets ever should—shoved a handful of Galleons towards Moretta. "I don't know how much is here, but it's yours. _Just leave me and my wife alone._"

Accepting the gold, Moretta raised her brows. "This doesn't make you less of a git, you know."

"I don't care about being a git. I care about you bothering my family!"

"Well," Moretta started, jangling Galleons in her palm, "if I do, you'll know where to find me to bring me more of this."

"You wouldn't dare!"

Moretta shrugged. "I'll warn you if I'm considering it. For now, shouldn't you be getting 'ome to that wife you've been on about for the last ten minutes?"

Ron growled and stormed towards the lift, his fists balled and his mind focused all too heavily on what he would be walking into once he got home.

* * *

Hermione sat at the dining room table, tapping her fingernails impatiently against the hard oaken surface. Her sanity had been teetering on the edge since the day after Christmas, and now that she was armed with more information—information that had changed her life—she was ready to combat all of the excuses he had been making.

Bile inched its way up her throat.

Then, fifteen minutes later than he should have arrived, she heard the _whoosh!_ of the fireplace. She did not have the energy to go to him, so instead, she continued waiting at the table—waiting for him to fly into her web of accusations.

After a moment of quiet tiptoeing around the living room and the hallway, a pale face finally poked through the entryway.

"Erm—afternoon, dear. Any visitors today, by chance?"

Hermione locked eyes with him. "Only Harry."

If he was pale before, he was white as a ghost now.

"Harry, right," he said, leaning in the doorframe. The nervous way he wrung his hands told Hermione all she needed to know. "Good bloke, that Harry. Loves a good prank now and then too, doesn't he?"

Hermione took a sip of her tea and quirked an eyebrow. "Harry's never been much for pranking me, actually. It seems that the only one that wants to make a fool of me is you, Ronald."

"A fool of you? I—I'd never," Ron stammered. "As if I even could. You've always been smarter than me, Hermione, it's no secret—"

"Stop!" she shouted, slamming her palms against the tabletop. Rising from her chair, she added, "Just stop it, Ron. You aren't helping anything."

He gulped. Hermione had always had a bit of a temper, but she knew he had never seen her so angry before. After all, she had never been so angry before, let alone since they had been married.

"You know, I suspected this had been going on," she continued, crossing her arms. "As soon as you said you had to work on Christmas, I knew something was wrong. Harry said nobody was supposed to work that day, and why would he say that if it weren't true?"

"But I—"

"Don't interrupt me!" she spat, seeing red for the first time since he left her and Harry alone during the Horcrux hunt. "I spent Christmas Day sitting with your family, Ronald! Your mother kept looking at me like it was _my_ fault that you didn't show, but it was because you were too busy with that—that _trollop! _And that actually brings me to another point. Why _her?_ Is she the first one you approached or the last one, because no offense to her, but she wouldn't be _my_ first choice if I were you."

Ron said nothing. He was still stark white, staring at her with unblinking eyes.

"Answer me, Ron! Is she the only one that was so _stupid_ to fall for your bloody lies or did you try this with other women?"

After a deep inhale, he choked out, "She was the first one, Hermione, and it never went very far, I swear it—"

"I told you to stop lying!"

Then, before Hermione could stop it, her magic released a gust of wind, blowing Ron against the far wall. With wide eyes, he scrambled to his feet, stumbling a bit as he recovered from the sheer force. After all, he could not have expected such a well-educated, disciplined witch to have such little control. Emotional bursts of magic usually only happened when children were throwing tantrums.

"Hermione, calm down—"

_"I will not calm down!"_

The candles upon the wall all went out as another gust of wind emitted from Hermione, whose hair was standing every-which-way with crackling magic. She pulled out her wand and wordlessly summoned a small flame that danced around the wand's end. This time, her action was intentional.

"Hermione, put that out... You're mad right now. Y-you need time to think about all this..."

"So now you're worried about my feelings, are you?"

The flame grew.

"I know I bollocksed some things up but you have to know I love you! I regret it! All of it!" he exclaimed, his chest heaving up and down as she cornered him by the stairs of their townhouse. "If I could take it all back, I would! She's nothing, Hermione! I love you! I always have!"

"You only regret it because you were caught!"

A blast of fire emitted from her wand and singed the drywall. It was only inches from Ron's head, and thusly, he let out a strangled cry.

"Hermione, you're going to hurt someone!"

"Yes! Hopefully you!"

"But—but you love me," he stuttered. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be as upset as you are!"

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, Ron."

The flame burst forth again, this time missing Ron's gingery red hair by mere centimeters.

"Bloody hell, woman!"

That was when Ron made a pivotal mistake: He reached for his wand.

_"Expelli_—_"_

The flame, now a hideous, bipedal creature that looked a lot like an ibex, seized the wand and snapped it in half. Even in the face of Death Eaters, Ron had never looked more terrified.

"Fiendfyre? When in the hell did you learn that?"

Hermione cocked an eyebrow as the creature fell back beside her, towering over her shoulder. "I read, Ronald."

He was trembling now, and Hermione felt nothing but a strange mixture of anger and satisfaction. He had put her through hell, and now he would see what true hell was like: the type of hell made of fire and beings birthed of pure vengeance.

"Hermione, we can work this out. You know I love you. You have to know that. If I didn't, I would've—"

"You would've been faithful! The way I was!" she shrieked, closing in on him like the predator she had become. "I was here, alone, making your bloody meals and cleaning up after you because you're a giant bloody child! Meanwhile, you were out with _her_. Did you ever think about me once?"

"Of course I did, Hermione. You have to know I did..."

"And you did it anyway!"

The horned, ibex-like creature had lurched forward again, and from its manlike arm grew a snake, thick-bodied and hissing between the hefty _whoosh! _of the fire. The snake slowly wrapped around Ron's leg and he let out a horrible sob—one that should have released Hermione from her trance, but it did not. As the infernal reptile recoiled, the burn smoked and bled.

"Hermione! Please! This isn't you!"

"How do you know?" she snapped. "How do you know what is and isn't me? You've barely spoken to me in the last several months!"

And the creature was grabbing fistfuls of his hair, burning it off in hideous chunks.

"Hermione! Stop!"

"I can't!"

And with that, the creatures split into eight: the bipedal ibex, the snake, a lion, and several demons that probably only existed in their fiery forms.

They surrounded him, and they consumed him.


End file.
